December 2022

Why do babies always get ill when you’re out? They seem to have an inbuilt Fun Radar, which automatically releases germs into their system when they sense mummy is on her third glass of vino. My baby’s radar went off at midnight on Christmas Day this year – so I was cleaning up chunks, drunk…

Cleaning Up Chunks: A Christmas Special

Christmas Night. We were about to start the third, and final, round of a hilarious and tense Hat Game. My team was way behind but we were talking the talk and determined to win it back, when my dad came in and said in my ear, “The baby’s crying”. With drunken speed I powered up the stairs, all ready to administer the usual cuddle and return to bed. I picked up the little darling and he promptly threw up all over me – over my top, my socks, my sparkly necklace with loads of little claw bits for the sick to cling to. It was the classic congealed milk puke with which I’m sure every parent is familiar. Once I’d cleaned him up, he was fine, and I concluded that it was a coughing fit that had prompted the expulsion, rather than a tummy bug. Much to the relief of the large number of assembled family members downstairs.

He’d been absolutely fine all day, and wasn’t coughing any more, so I was at ease with his state of health. Thus, all I had to worry about now was the post-puke ops. Clearing up vomit is the true exemplification of the division of labour, as I’ve noted before in Cleaning Up Chunks – A Mother’s Glory. It is a job for mummy hands (in our house, anyway), and let me tell you, cleaning up chunks while drunk, at 1am on Boxing Day, is no fun at all. My fault, obviously, for assuming that once the kids were all safely asleep, I could go downstairs and enjoy some Christmas cheer.

The Fun Radar

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, though. The Fun Radar has caught me out so often over my mummy years. How many times have you been halfway through dinner and the babysitter calls – one of the children has a temperature. My husband took me away for a surprise anniversary treat a couple of years ago – within an hour of leaving, we had the call from his mum saying one of them had been sick. I immediately started crying and literally shaking with guilt and the need to be with him. Because, of course, when my children are ill, nothing else matters. I not only have to be at their side, but I want to be, with every cell of the body which nurtured them for nine months. Even if every cell is 100% proof.

#175120294 / gettyimages.com I am drinking lager on the loo. My husband is hunched over his pint in the shower. We are waiting for the kids to fall asleep so we can drink like civilized people: sitting on the corridor outside the cabin. The depths to which one sinks as a parent never cease to amaze. We could have just gone to bed at the same time as the children and listened to them not falling asleep. But we are on Holiday! New place, new rules. Not all of which should be brought home.

All kids love poo. Mine names his. This morning, we had the usual “just sat down for breakfast loo dash” and he produced three poos: a big one, a medium-sized one and a small one. “Like Goldilocks!” he cried. 

Faces in Poos

But his fascination with poo doesn’t end there. You may have heard of the popular Twitter account Faces in Things (@FacesPics). Well, my son sees Faces in Poos. Just this week, we’ve had Yoda, Mario and Daddy (ok, I made that last one up). He has an amazing knack for seeing shapes in sh*t. It’s like a sort of inverse cloud-gazing (something he’s also very good at).

“But the Poos Will Miss Christmas!”

While we’re here, I’m going to share another of my favourite poo stories. Christmas Day. My middle boy (of Goldilocks fame) is on the throne. I attend to him and, without thinking – foolish mother! – flush the loo, keen to get downstairs and start Christmas. My son bursts into tears. “Why did you flush it mummy?” “Because we need to send the poos away down the pipe.” “But now they’ll miss Christmas!”

Some children learn about life, love and loss through pets or cuddly toys. My son is taking these tough lessons from poo. And why not?

Let’s Turn Twitter Brown! #poofairytales #poocorner I’ve never started a hash tag before, but, come on – poo fairy tales? It’s begging for it! Here’s mine for starters: The Emperor’s Poo Clothes The Elves and the Poomaker And if you ever have the, ahem, urge to share a poo story, why not do so on this hash tag #poocorner? After all, everyone loves a good poo story.  “Who’s been s*itting in my chair?” Courtesy of www.deboraburr.com If you liked this, how about nominating me for Most Entertaining, Best New or Best Writer? Not all my posts are quite so immature, I promise. Like me on Facebook? I’ll like you right back.

You’ve been away. You’re on your way home. Your head is bursting with your out-of-home experience, and quite likely with your hangover. Across your addled brain run visions of your homecoming. Will your dream become reality? Dream: They will be sleeping peacefully (on your return at 8.30pm). You will drop a kiss on their foreheads, making them smile in their slumber. You will turn in within the hour. Reality: They are both wide awake and instantly launch a “story offensive”, which quickly spirals into an argument about who should get read to by mummy first that can only be settled by a light saber duel. When you finally extricate yourself, they come downstairs every two minutes for half an hour. Your early bedtime trickles through your fingers. Dream: He will wake up with an ecstatic smile because mummy’s home. He will cling cutely to you all day, such was his longing to be with you. Reality: He gives you evils as soon as he lays eyes on you. He slaps you with an open palm when you try to kiss him and cries hysterically if you try to hold him, lurching towards his father. Your months and months of round-the-clock devotion to his every need are wiped out by one day of daddy daycare. Dream: Have sucked up all that water you have lovingly poured on them every evening for weeks, have shaken off their bugs after you vigorously sprayed them with a pesticide that seared your skin, have guzzled the Miracle Gro sweeties you dug in for them, and burst into a bloom to rival Kew Gardens. Personally, I don’t have any pets but I’m sure they’d welcome you home with a nice loose poo in the hall. Dream: Wakes you at 10am the next day with a cup of tea and (if necessary) an Alka Seltzer. Is gentle with you all day, cooks you dinner and tucks you in nice and early. Reality: You’ve been away – therefore, you’re on duty. Never mind if you didn’t get to bed till 2am while you were away, you are getting up with the baby, leading the day’s childcare and cooking tea. Does my recent experience incline me to be tender with my husband when he returns from his 501^st stag do later this year? What do you think? Other readers who viewed this item also viewed: